


The End

by trashmadame



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 22:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16146761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmadame/pseuds/trashmadame
Summary: Each motion felt like a chore.A drabble.





	The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thinks about depressed Ratchet.

Pharma had reached out to him. Blue on his red (were they red now) hands—careful fingers stitched between the plates on his palm. Ratchet could feel a charge tickle through his frame and warm his array. His spark would beat, like always, when Pharma kissed the edges of his helm to his crest. 

 

He shuttered his optics, tried to concentrate on the loud whirl of Pharma’s fans, and the vibration of his frame on his own.

 

Each motion felt like a chore. 

 

He kissed eager lips, tried to mirror the same fervor.

 

But each motion felt like a chore. 

 

He waited for the overload, the few seconds where he would forget who he was. He clenched as he felt himself tip over—Pharma’s deft hands gentle on his valve—and the overload ripped through him faster than a shock. For a brief moment, as the hot flash reached his optics and the smell of ozone masked reality around him, he felt like true bliss. Almost as if he had been shot through the stars, far from the war and from the still lingering feeling of energon dripping from his joints. Away from death—was this what life was supposed to feel like?

 

And much too soon, even sooner than every last intimate encounter, he would fall back down. He would suddenly remember, his hands in Pharma’s valve and moving without even a thought as they ran through familiar nodes, that he can not dream. 

 

Pharma would overload, his plates shuttering and his folds clenching around Ratchet’s fingers. He would tip his head back, his optics beaming like rays of sunlight. And it should be beautiful, it was always beautiful. Ratchet would tell him he was more beautiful than anything he had ever saw. And he wouldn’t be lying. 

 

But he couldn’t express that each word felt like a chore to utter. And that he couldn’t even feel guilt. And he was comfortable in this void of thought and emotion.

 

“I feel like the only time I ever see _you_ again,” Pharma would say as he cleaned the lubricant from Ratchet’s fingers. “Is when you’re in the medibay.”

 

“I’m tied to my work.” Ratchet replied with a shrug. He opened and closed his hands when Pharma let him free, in awe that he could still feel like something felt wrong.

 

“You care so much, Ratchet.” Pharma said. “You only care—all you do is care, about everyone and everything. And it’s destroying you.” He sat motionless. “It’s destroying us.”

 

At this point, Ratchet would have reached over and given his lover a hug, or a kiss. Something to affirm that, despite the years that chipped away at them, that they were still in love. And each time, more and more so, Ratchet felt exhausted. 

 

So, Ratchet did not do anything. He sat and watched Pharma. And the words that had been on the precipice of the end finally fell. “Then, maybe we should stop what we’re doing.” 

 

“…Maybe.”


End file.
